Champs gym stands like a tombstone amid one of the saddest slumsin North Philadelphia. Derelict row houses stretch for blocksalong West Huntingdon Street, an area of hopeless poverty andmalignant neglect. Outside the gym, street people lounge, lostand passive. Inside, Bernard Hopkins struts around a boxingring, lean and muscular and full of the righteous ire he hasdisplayed since winning the IBF middleweight title in 1995. "I'ma survivor," says the 35-year-old Hopkins, sounding as if he hasclawed his way out of the smoking ruins of Dresden. "Sure, I'mwell-off now and have a nice house in the suburbs. But I stillprefer to train in my old neighborhood. It's not the gym thatmakes the man tough. It's the man that makes the gym tough."

Hopkins has toughed out nearly five years of prison, legaldustups with two promoters and a system that, he claims,shackles him like Kunta Kinte. "No matter where I fight, I fighthard," he says. "If I promise to win, I follow through. Iexecute." With his bullet-hard eyes and fisticuff abs, theself-styled Executioner looks as if he was hammered on the anvilof the gods to be an emblem of war. "He's an excitable guy witha reputation for being a lunatic," says HBO boxing czar LouDiBella. "Get to know him, though, and you find he's reasoned,decent, very together."

Part of the Executioner's rep derives from his ring entrances(he often bursts through the ropes hooded in black andaccompanied by a couple of bare-chested, ax-wielding handlers)and part from his rambling rants. "I get pissed, but I wouldn'tcall it angry," he says, crunching syllables like Clint Eastwoodworking up a vengeful froth. "To me, angry is out of control. Ihaven't been that way for a while. My mood is more controlledaggression."

The 36-2-1 Hopkins makes his next security deposit this Saturdayin Indianapolis. A victory over the lightly regarded SydVanderpool would be Hopkins's 11th successful titledefense--three shy of Carlos Monzon's middleweight record.Hopkins's share of the purse looks to be about $450,000, chumpchange compared with what lots of other titleholders command.Still, it's $350,000 more than he earned for his previous bout,a lopsided decision over No. 1 contender Antwun Echols in Miami.

Underpaid and largely overlooked, the self-managed,self-promoted Hopkins refuses to take pleasure in his fame andaccomplishments. He's forever railing against promoters,managers, sanctioning bodies. "Prizefighters get mistreated,exploited, out-and-out robbed every day," says Hopkins, whowould like to launch a boxers' union. "Either you crusade forreform or you become part of the problem. As a champion, I feelan obligation to take a stand."

A year ago he testified in New York City before a boxing taskforce that was convened by the National Association of AttorneysGeneral. "Fighters have as much chance against promoters as awelterweight has against Mike Tyson," Hopkins said. "How manystories have you heard about fighters who went broke? Now, howmany stories have you heard about boxing promoters who wentbroke? Promoters hold all the power, all the leverage and mostof the money. They're not going to give that up to any fighter,not unless they absolutely have to."

According to Hopkins, a half-dozen promoters advised him not toappear at the hearing. "They said, 'Bernard, you've beenblessed, be part of the program,' but I don't want to be part ofa program," the fighter says. "The business of boxing makes mewant to puke. If you brought that business home with you everynight, you wouldn't be married too long." Evidently he doesn'tbring it home: He's been married seven years.

Born in a section of North Philly he calls "the pit-bull bellyof the ghetto," Hopkins has been fighting ever since he canremember. "Back then I hit lots of people upside the head," herecalls. "I had a lot of negative energy." So much that juveniledetention became his second home. He says that after aconviction for strong-arm robbery in 1983, a judge told him,"I'm tired of seeing your face, Mr. Hopkins." The judge banished17-year-old Bernard to a penitentiary, where he reflected on hisnegativity for 56 months.

"I got a good, hard whack for what I did," Hopkins says. Hecredits the boxing coach at the prison in Graterford, Pa., forturning him from a street bully into a polished combinationpuncher. "Many nights I cried, [jail] was so rough. But theexperience straightened me out. If I could find the guy whocalled the cops on me, I'd shake his hand."

Hopkins lost his pro debut, in 1988, when he was a chubby lightheavyweight. Though the 23-year-old was a natural middleweight,his manager fattened him up with fast food. "All those burgersmade me sluggish," Hopkins says. "Everybody in the crowd seemedto think I'd be knocked out. Fortunately, my heart kept me on myfeet."

His head, filled with self-doubt, kept him out of the ring forthe next 16 months. Returning under new management, he fought asa middleweight and super middleweight and won 22 straightbouts--16 by knockout, 13 within the first two rounds. He oftenreturned to Graterford to train. "That way, I was sure to get inat least 15 rounds," says Hopkins. "If I beat up a sparringpartner on the outside, he might not come back the followingday. The guys at Graterford didn't have anywhere else to go."

Hopkins got his first title shot in 1993, when Roy Jones Jr.outpointed him in a close 12-rounder for the IBF crown. AfterJones moved to a heavier weight class, Hopkins earned aseventh-round TKO over Segundo Mercado to become Philly's first160-pound world champ.

Since then Hopkins's fiercest fights have been with formerpromoters he feels worked against his best interests. Contractdisputes have limited him to about two bouts a year. "Nobodywants to fight Bernard," says his adviser, Don Elbaum. "Effortsto unify the middleweight title have been fruitless." Don King,promoter of WBC champ Keith Holmes and WBA counterpart WilliamJoppy, has shown no interest in risking either belt to a boxerhe doesn't control.

Hopkins looks at the big-ticket junior middleweights belowhim--Felix Trinidad, Fernando Vargas, David Reid--and says hewould happily shed six pounds to challenge them. "The 154-pounddivision is a holding pen for welterweights too scared to moveup to middleweight," he snarls. "That's why Reid is JennyCraiging himself on carrots and celery, and fighting every MaryPoppins and Sue."

If Hopkins can't land a 154-pounder, he's willing to bulk up tosuper middleweight (168 pounds) for a rematch with Jones, theundisputed light heavyweight (175 pounds) champ. Jones isreluctant to pare down, however. "Everybody's waiting for me toget old and over the hill," says Hopkins. "They don't realizethat by fighting infrequently, I've never gotten pounded, neverbeen cut, never been stitched up. I've been preserved. I'm likegrandma's peaches sitting on a shelf in the cellar, waiting formy time."